


To the Pain

by aralias



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Blakefest, Duel To The Death, Episode: s02e04 Horizon, Episode: s02e05 Pressure Point, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Blakefest prompt: Blake has to duel for Avon's honour (or vice versa).</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corngold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corngold/gifts).



> This is set between 'Horizon' and 'Pressure Point'.
> 
> The rating is mostly for violence, and also for this being a Blake's 7 fic. If this work were posted on Hermit.org it would get a M/M 'thinking about it' rating (1/5) and would hardly deserve that. So - don't expect too much /, but at the same time I didn't want to say it wasn't there at all. Because it is.
> 
> Corngold: as you know, I have started writing one your other prompts. The idea is that that other one would get a 4/5 ;)

_Humperdinck: But first things first - to the death!  
_ _Westley:  No! To the pain.  
_ _Humperdinck:  I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.  
_ _Westley:  I'll explain. And I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog-faced buffoon.  
_ _Humperdinck: ...That may be the first time in my life a man has_ dared _insult me.  
_ _Westley:  It won't be the last._

Considering that it was a cell, the room that Avon was confined in could, he supposed, easily have been worse. There was a distinct lack of company for one thing, which made the time he’d spent here significantly more bearable. Vila was down the corridor somewhere in another cell, but he was a seasoned inmate and hadn’t bothered using his incarceration to yell about his innocence. So, it was relatively peaceful. It was also, considering the level of technology on this planet, relatively clean.

That didn’t mean that Avon was happy to stay where he was much longer. Relatively peaceful and relatively clean the cell might be, but it was also a place where he could wait for his imminent execution. The locks on the cell doors were a joke so funny that Vila had actually laughed as the key twisted and the pins dropped into place. They should have been free by now, but he seemed to be holding off because, as they had been dragged inside, Blake’s voice had shouted:

_“Stay where you are! I’ll get you out, but you must stay where you are.”_

The message had been so vague (the threat either of Blake’s anger or something unspecified, but presumably worse if they escaped without Blake’s help definitely implied) that Vila must be waiting for further instructions. Avon had considered shouting along the corridor that Vila should ignore their great and glorious leader, but it was unlikely he would be able to convince Vila immediately. And if he couldn’t do that, all he would be doing would be alerting the guards that they had a lock-pick in their cells. So, that was pointless.

Besides, there was the matter of the vague threat, which was not something to dismiss lightly. Blake’s anger was something Avon dealt with on a regular basis, but he could endure it most easily when he knew that he, Avon, was in the right. In those situations, it was clear that Blake’s anger was actually just Blake’s frustration with everything that was beyond his control. That he should vent this frustration on his innocent crewmates was not exactly a desirable character trait, but at least it was _Blake’s_ undesirable character trait. Avon could put up with that. Indeed, to some extent he actually liked it. It was good to know the worst of Blake, and to know that the worst of Blake was merely that he thought he should be able to fix everything. What Avon hated and almost couldn’t bear was being forced to acknowledge his own failings, and to know that Blake knew them too and disliked him for them.

There could be no doubt, this time, that Avon was very definitely in the wrong, and that Blake’s future anger would be entirely justified. It would be best not to antagonise him any further, if it could be avoided.

There was the creak of a key in the lock, and the door to Avon’s cell opened. Avon looked up and saw that it was Blake, wearing an all too familiar scowl. Fortunately, Blake apparently had the good manners to wait until the cell guard had gone before actually launching into his dressing down. That meant that, if Avon acted quickly, he could get in at least a few shots before Blake had a chance to retort.

He sat down on the thin bed, crossing on leg over the other as though without a care in the world. “I thought I asked for Jenna as my legal counsel.” A moment later he remembered his plan not to antagonise Blake. Ah well. So much for that. “I’d offer you a seat,” he added, “but, as you can see, they’re in short supply.”

The door shut on the largely bare room and Blake said, with what was obviously barely repressed fury, “I can’t work out if that’s a stupid, inappropriate joke, or whether you really don’t understand what you’ve done.”

“It’s a _joke_ ,” Vila shouted helpfully from down the corridor. Avon gestured towards the wall through which Vila’s voice had emanated to indicate that it had provided the right answer, and then held out his hand.

“Teleport bracelet.”

“They don’t _have_ courtroom trials on this planet,” Blake said, slowly and clearly, as though he hadn’t heard what Avon had said. “They _have trial by combat._ To the death. _”_

“I know,” Avon said. “That’s why I asked you for the teleport bracelet. I’d rather not linger any longer than I have to – nice, though it is, to get away from the bother of one’s everyday life.”

“I haven’t brought you a teleport bracelet,” Blake said.

“How thoughtless of you,” Avon said. “Perhaps you should keep a to-do list to ensure you don’t forget anything this important again. In the mean time, I’ll accept _your_ bracelet and an apology.”

“I gave _my_ bracelet to the guards,” Blake said firmly. “ _After_ explaining what it was and therefore what I was giving up.”

 _“What?”_ Avon said flatly. The light, mocking tone was instantly gone from his voice.

“He gave away-” Vila shouted, as though content to act as translation service for the two of them.

“Shut _up_ , Vila,” Avon snapped.

“Only trying to help,” the wall grumbled.

Blake was still acting as though Vila hadn’t spoken. All of his rage was still focused entirely on Avon, even though Avon and Vila had actually attempted to steal the statue _together_.

“I need these people to trust me,” he explained, “ _if_ we’re going to build a base here, _if_ we’re going to be able to _help_ them. You knew that when we arrived. I made it quite clear before we left the Liberator that the mission would succeed or fail entirely on whether they could trust us, and yet you still decided to _steal_ from them.”

“And so you’re just going to sacrifice me, are you?” Avon asked coldly.  “No, no,” he corrected himself. “ _Not_ just me. Me _and_ Vila.”

“Now, hang on a minute,” the wall said.

“And for a group of people who can’t even _help_ you,” Avon spat, now ignoring Vila too.

For some reason, that was the most galling part. He’d always suspected that Blake’s cause would be the death of him (actually it was a surprise that it hadn’t already happened), but this was so _pointless_. The planet Meredes was at the very fringes of the Federation. That was, as far as Avon could see, its chief attraction for Blake, much as it had been the chief attraction of Horizon. There certainly wasn’t much else to say in its favour – the people here hadn’t discovered space travel, or built their own computers or _even_ their own projectile weapons.

“There are, of course, other places you could build a base,” Avon told Blake.

“All right, name _one_ ,” Blake retorted.

“Lindor,” Avon said, but Blake shook his head sharply.

“Too centralised, too easy for the Federation to organise a military bombardment. Lindor survives _precisely_ because it is non-aggressive.”

“Horizon,” Avon said.

Blake laughed incredulously. “Do you really want to go back there? Do you think Vila does?”

“No, I don’t,” Vila shouted from the other cell.

“They’re working on rebuilding their entire civilisation,” Blake continued. “They don’t need further distractions.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose where the scowl lines congregated, and then flung his hand away again. “And the base is only _part_ of the reason we’re here. If we leave now then this planet stays under the yoke of the Federation.”

“ _So_?” Avon said.

 _“So,”_ Blake repeated at a louder volume, “I can’t just abandon them. _We_ can’t just abandon them.”

“Look for the bigger picture, Blake.” Avon said. “That is something you are usually very good at. Sacrifice me and Vila for the greater good, sacrifice this planet for the greater good – it amounts to the same thing.”

“I’m _not_ sacrificing you.”

“Trial by combat, Blake,” Avon said, slowly and clearly. “To the death. Do you think I’ll _win_? Will _Vila_?”

“I might,” Vila’s voice said from the wall. “Though, I admit, I wouldn’t lay very good odds on it.”

“You won’t be fighting,” Blake said. “Neither of you will be.”

Avon stared at him. He blinked, and frowned, and realised he was still pointing a finger in Blake’s direction. He withdrew it. “But you said-”

“This is a feudal society,” Blake explained with painstaking accuracy “The lord takes responsibility for the behaviour of his vassals. Either I admit you are at fault and condemn you to a public execution, _or_ I protest your innocence and fight to defend your honour.”

“You’re sacrificing yourself,” Avon said with realisation.

He looked at Blake, hoping he would take the opportunity to deny this statement, but Blake smiled. It looked sickeningly real.

“Something I always knew might be necessary,” he said. He sounded more reasonable and calm now that he’d said what he’d come to say and it was all out in the open, even though what he’d said accounted to madness. “My property and position will pass legally to my second in command, so at least my death should give Jenna the grounds to re-open talks. And at least it will save the lives of two of my friends.”

“A rather crude twisting of the knife,” Avon told him.

“I think I’m entitled to twist it slightly, don’t you?” Blake asked. “Since you will quite literally be the death of me.”

“You could help more people by living,” Avon said, and at any other time he would have been embarrassed by how weak his voice sounded.

“Well, perhaps I’ll win,” Blake said.

“Are you good with a sword?”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one until today,” Blake said, and Avon shut his eyes.

Surely this was some horrible nightmare. Blake couldn’t possibly be this ridiculous, this self-centred and generous. None of the rest of them wanted this choice or would prefer it to just running away, even Blake must know that. _Blake_ was the one who wanted to negotiate with these people, _Blake_ was the one who wanted the base, _Blake_ was willing to sacrifice his own life to achieve those aims. More than that, he must want to set an example that Avon and the others would be forced to follow because of the price he had paid. That Avon didn’t want his life on those terms was insignificant. He would be alive, and Blake would be closer to meeting his goals. They would both win – that must be how Blake saw it. The only problem was that Blake would be dead, and his life was important to at least one of them.

Some part of Avon admired Blake for his gesture, and was pathetically grateful that some part of Blake valued Avon’s life over his own. The rest of him hated Blake for putting him in this position. If he had _only_ brought the teleport bracelets, or considered someone else’s opinion for once.

“When is the fight?” Avon asked.

“Now,” Blake said.

 _Typical_ , Avon thought sourly.

“Blake-” he said, and heard Blake take a step towards him.

“You were my last re-” Blake said, and Avon swung around towards him, bringing his right arm up in a long, fluid motion. His fist connected with the bottom of Blake’s jaw and pushed upwards. Blake’s head snapped back, and then he crumpled. After a brief moment of indecision, Avon let him drop. He wasn’t sure he could support Blake’s weight and there was no sense in tiring himself out unnecessarily. 

“You know, I really rather enjoyed that,” he said, in case Vila was still listening and because it was, to some extent, true. Blake, he thought, would probably have quite liked to hit him, too. He certainly would once this was over – his plan ruined, his peace ruined, and what would probably be quite a painful headache throbbing behind his eyes.

Avon whisked the thin pillow off the bed, knelt and pushed it under Blake’s head. As he did so, his fingers seemed to catch and lock in the curls of Blake’s hair. He forced them to relax their grip, but let them trail down across Blake’s cheek and, before he could stop himself, over Blake’s mouth. He felt Blake breathing against his fingertips, and snatched his hand back.

_I rather enjoyed that, too._

“What’s happening?” Vila’s voice said quietly. “Avon?”

“Wait a moment,” Avon said, just as quietly and just as calmly.

He stood and walked over to the door. There was a barred window set into it, and Avon could see through the window down the corridor. There was one guard and he had apparently paused at the end of the corridor to chat with someone out of sight.

“All right,” Avon said. “Get us out of here, Vila.”

He stepped back as the door opened in towards him. “I thought you’d never ask,” Vila said. The whole process of unlocking two doors and moving from one cell to the other had taken him less than thirty seconds. His eyes darted down to Blake on the floor, and then back up to Avon. “ _This_ isn’t much of a surprise though. I bet myself it would come to blows within a year and I hope I pay up, but you could have picked a better time for it.”

“I apologise, but it wasn’t planned,” Avon said.

“What are we going to do now, that’s what-”

“ _Hey_ ,” the guard shouted from some way off, “what-?”

Avon pushed Vila out of the way, pulled the door back towards himself and shoved it back hard into the guard’s face as he stepped into the doorway. He yanked the door back as the guard stumbled, strode out in the corridor and took hold the man’s shoulders, slamming his head into the wall once, catching his head as it fell back and slamming it back into the wall again.

The guard crumpled like Blake had, leaving a smear of red against the wall. Avon grinned, the adrenalin hitting him at last. It felt like he could do this. Not a good attitude to go into a fight with, perhaps – it might make him careless, but then again... this must be how Blake usually felt.

He dragged the unconscious guard back into the cell, and propped him against the wall. There was a short dagger tucked into his belt and Avon pulled it out, and handed it to Vila.

“Keep hold of that.”

“I’m not using it on anyone,” Vila said, as always fiercely brave when it came to his right to be a coward.

“You don’t have to,” Avon said. He pocketed the ring of prison keys, and began rummaging in the guard’s pockets for the teleport bracelet. He gestured back at the guard. “You just have to stop _him_ from using it.”

“I think you’ve already done that,” Vila said. Avon gave him a quizzical look, and Vila said, as though it was obvious, “He’s dead, Avon.”

Avon looked down. The man’s head was hanging at an odd angle, which meant Vila was probably right.

“Ah,” he said. Fortunately the adrenalin kept the horror at bay. “Blake isn’t. I checked.”

The teleport bracelet was definitely not on the dead man’s body. Avon hadn’t really expected it to be, but he had hoped he might be that lucky just once. He brushed off his hands on his trousers, even though there was nothing on the guard except death. Then he made a quick search of Blake’s body in case Blake had been lying, but there was no teleport bracelet on him either.

“All right,” Avon said, standing. “Keep Blake here for the next half an hour, then make him tell you _which_ guards he gave our teleport bracelets to. Once you’ve got them, don’t waste any time. Just go back to the ship.”

“How am I supposed to keep Blake here if he wakes up?” Vila said.

“Lock the door,” Avon said, opening it and stepping out into the corridor. He grinned as Vila’s white face appeared behind the barred window as the door swung shut. “I assume your skills don’t tend entirely in the other direction.”

*

There were, Avon knew, at least two exits to the prison. One led outside and was the most immediately attractive for that reason, but would also be the most heavily guarded. It was also unlikely, if he escaped that way, that he would find the only member of the Liberator crew who wasn’t in the cells or back on the ship. If he couldn’t find her or the teleport bracelets before someone came to investigate the cells and found Blake and Vila there with a dead guard, then it was likely they would both just be executed for good measure.

 _Tempting_ , Avon thought, in much the same way as he had said ‘I really rather enjoyed that’ earlier – in case someone was listening in and judging him. The fact that nobody, not even Cally, _could_ read his thoughts didn’t make it less necessary that he make the remark, even if it was only to himself.

On a more selfish note, if he couldn’t find Jenna or the teleport bracelets then there was a good chance he’d be abandoned here on this fleapit of a planet. So, he would have to find Jenna.

There were possibly other exits from the prison that he didn’t know about, but since he didn’t know about them it was likely that they would take some time to locate. That would give the guards the same length of time to find Blake and Vila and jump to the correct conclusion about what had happened to their dead comrade.

That left the exit onto the internal trial courts. Avon and Vila had been shown through the courts on their way to their cells, so Avon knew that there was a staircase leading directly from one end of the corridor he was currently on right up to the courts. Thanks to Blake, he also knew that there would be a lot of people waiting there, waiting to see Blake fight to the death to prove that Avon hadn’t stolen a statue he had demonstrably stolen, so that Blake could prove that he was an honourable man...

Sometimes Avon tried repeating Blake’s more illogical plans to him, out loud, in the hope that he would hear how illogical they sounded and re-think the strategy. So far it hadn’t worked.

Under the circumstances, it seemed likely that Jenna would be waiting to watch Blake kill himself in the trial courts. Since she hadn’t thus far managed to talk him out of the plan, it was really the least that she could do.

On the face of it, what Avon was about to do was a stupid, futile and romantic gesture – that’s what it would have been if Blake had made the same decision. However, since Avon knew he would need Jenna’s help, and he knew he would need to stop guards returning to the cells, it was clearly the only logical, rational decision. With that in mind, he took the stairs up to the trial courts.

Nobody was expecting an unescorted prisoner to come from the direction of the cells, so Avon got to the top of the staircase undetected. There were two guards facing away from him into the courts: one tall and broad, the other less tall but still broad. Through the small gap between their shoulders, Avon could see that the courts were indeed full of people.

Avon tapped both guards on their outside shoulders and, as they turned outwards in surprise, he squeezed through the wider space that had been created. All his instincts screamed that he should shout Jenna’s name and run to whatever safety she could offer, but he fought down the panic and smiled as the guards seized his arms as though this was all part of his plan.

Of course, strictly speaking it was part of his plan. He just hated the plan.

“It’s one of the condemned!” someone shouted from the crowd, and Avon almost flinched. He supposed that was what he literally was on this planet to these people, but the strange, biblical finality of the description seemed to fit the way Avon felt increasingly helpless against his own bad luck. Condemned to spend the rest of his life on Cygnus Alpha, condemned to board the Liberator, condemned to follow Blake, and condemned for not following Blake well or wholeheartedly enough. Death and eternal damnation awaited.

“How did you get here?” one of the guards demanded.

Avon feigned confusion. “Well, I walked,” he said.

He left them a beat to process that and for the appropriate anger to build before he smiled. “Perhaps you should ask me why I’m here. That might be more interesting.”

“Obviously you escaped,” the more talkative guard said. “Poorly,” he added, “and briefly.”

Avon rolled his eyes, tried to cross his arms but found they were pinned by the two guards. He glared at the talkative guard, but fortunately by this time Jenna had pushed through the crow towards Avon.

“What are you doing here, Avon?” Jenna demanded. “Where’s Blake?”

With moving his restrained arms or wrists, Avon pointed a finger towards Jenna. “Now that I can work with.” He smiled at the guard before taking in the whole stadium with the smile.

“I’m here to fight for my honour.”

He was pleased with the way this statement seemed to hang in the air for a moment and then the courts erupted into noise. Several people left the marked out areas around the ring to crowd in on him. Fortunately the guards either side of him acted as a good barrier. One of them let go of Avon’s arm to shove two men away at once, and Avon seized his moment and yanked Jenna closer by the wrist. He felt her teleport bracelet under his hand, like a hard, round link to almost immediate safety, and let go of her hurriedly rather than rip it off her. The guard grabbed his arm again, but Jenna was now within a foot of Avon. 

“Play along,” he hissed, close to her face.

“Why should I?” Jenna retorted, but she was willing to be convinced or she would have pulled away.

“Well, if you do,” Avon told her, “there’s a good chance that I’ll die, but _Blake_ will definitely live.”

Jenna’s eyes flicked up to meet his, and Avon nodded and tried to look sincere for once. “All right,” she said. “But what’s the catch?”

As she was pushed back, she grinned, and Avon gave her a sour look in response, but in reality he had rather enjoyed that retort. That Jenna was still willing to snipe with him made this seem like any other day, rather than the day of his very possible death.

Someone bellowed for quiet, and then Avon was pushed forwards towards the man he supposed was the arbiter. It wasn’t Varn, the man Blake had been engaged in talks with earlier in the day. Varn was off to one side – standing, Avon now saw, next to the statue that had caused all this trouble, as though guarding it. In fact, what he was standing by must have been the evidence table, as next to the statue were exhibits B (two teleport bracelets), C (two transparent guns and powerpacks) and D (a large box also filled with teleport bracelets).

Seeing Avon’s eyes turning to him, Varn stepped closer to the statue and scowled, which Avon found faintly amusing. As though he would be stupid enough to try and steal the thing again and in front of fifty witnesses. Admittedly he had been stupid enough to try and steal it on a planet with the death penalty and stupid enough to believe Blake wouldn’t hold him to that, but at least he could learn from his mistakes. 

“Your offer to defend yourself is admirable,” the arbiter told him.

“Not really,” Avon said, as though this bored him.

“ _But_ ,” the arbiter continued, “unacceptable.”

“How is it unacceptable? Do you have a problem with violence?”

“Your opponent is a leader of men,” the arbiter explained, gesturing at Varn. “ _You_ are a follower.” Avon’s eyebrows rose. “It would not be fair to either of you to fight this duel. Your leader understands this, and has already sworn himself in your place.”

“ _Blake_ has sworn himself in my place,” Avon said. “Yes. He told me about that.”

“And yet you still came here,” the arbiter said in disbelief. He held up his hands to emphasise his incredulity and some people laughed.

“Well,” Avon said blandly, “Blake is not my leader. He never has been and, judging by the ease with which I knocked him out earlier, he never will be. He and I are of equal rank, and I am not,” he said darkly, “anybody’s follower.”

“That’s true,” Jenna said, stepping forward at last. “Avon has never really been one of us. I expect he’s only with us because it’s slightly safer than being on his own.”

“Exactly,” Avon said, with a smile.

“He may even want the Liberator,” Jenna said and Avon turned to her with an obviously fake expression of innocence. Jenna smiled. “But he’ll have to get through me to get it.”

“As far as I’m concerned, Blake can keep his ship,” Avon said, “for now, at least.” As it happened, he had no designs on the ship at all, but he made a note of the idea in case he ever needed an excuse for staying with Blake. Cowardice would not always be good enough. “The fact is that he is _not_ my leader and cannot, therefore, fight on my behalf just because he fancies himself an expert swordsman and wants to show off his skill.” He looked to Jenna, but she shook her head, obviously unwilling to lie that outrageously.

“And are _you_ an expert swordsman?” the arbiter asked, with, Avon thought, what might be described as almost a twinkle in his eye.

“Whatever I am, I have the right to defend myself,” Avon said.

The arbiter gave him a long, hard look, and then he sat back in his chair. “ _Agreed_ ,” he said. There was another rumble of interest from the watching crowd, which stopped as the arbiter said, “And what of Restal? Will he too fight for himself?”

“Some men are born to lead,” Avon said. “They are figures of great oratorical power, physical presence and strength of character. I believe you’ve met Vila, so you’ll already know how well that description fits him. He was one of Blake’s followers, but since I knocked Blake out earlier, he has transferred his loyalty, such as it is, to me.” 

The arbiter rose to his feet. “So be it,” he said. His voice changed, so it was clear that he was now speaking to the crowd as well. “Cal Varn shall fight for the state of which he is the head, and for his own truth, which is that Kerr Avon and Vila Restal did today attempt to steal the statue of our goddess, the great Maarula.”

There was some distinct cheering, and Varn stepped away from the statue. He had a sword strapped to his back and he drew it over his shoulder with what seemed like impossible fluidity. Like Blake, Avon was not sure he had ever seen a sword before. He had an approximate idea of how one might be used, but the concept had always seemed so primitive and unlikely. There had been no reason to be afraid of a sword, no more than there was for him to be afraid of a tiger or a grisly bear, both of which had been extinct for several hundred years. The sword in Varn’s hand looked a lot more deadly than Avon might had imagined – heavy and sharp.

“Kerr Avon,” the arbiter continued, “shall fight for himself and for his vassal, Vila Restal, and for his truth, which is that he is innocent of the charges levelled against him.”

“If I am to fight, I’ll need my weapon back,” Avon said before they could offer him a sword of his own.

“Let me examine it,” the arbiter said, and held out an imperious hand. One of the two guns was brought forward and Avon forced himself not to stride forward and grab it. The arbiter turned the gun over in his hands. “This is not like the weapons used by the Federation.”

“We don’t have much in common,” Avon agreed.

“How does it work?”

“Well, it’s a simple enough principle,” Avon said, “but... rather difficult to explain.”

The arbiter turned it over in his hands, trying to find the trigger mechanism or a sharp edge, but finding neither. Blake had instructed Zen to make the guns fully isomorphic after Vargas had stolen one on Cygnus Alpha and the trigger mechanism was locked to the biodata of the person who had removed the gun from the wall mount. There was therefore not much danger of the arbiter being able to activate the weapon. If he had managed it, he would have realised instantly how big of an advantage it would give Avon over his opponent. There was always the possibility that Blake had already explained how the Liberator guns worked, but then again... perhaps he hadn’t realised that would be necessary.

Eventually the arbiter said, “A dagger?” in some confusion. Avon gave a shrug that he thought could probably be interpreted as either affirmation or dissention. “You may have it,” the arbiter said, and Avon stepped gratefully up to the dais to receive his gun.

No, he thought as his fingers closed around the handle. Not his gun. His gun _or_ Vila’s gun. There had been two Liberator guns stacked on the evidence table and one was in his hand now. It could easily be the one locked to Vila’s biodata. There was no way of checking it without firing. He felt the odds on his survival shortening, as though it was a physical squeeze around his heart. Fifty-fifty. Unless he grabbed a teleport bracelet from the evidence table- That _was_ still an option.

Varn swung at him with the sword and Avon stepped back. He hadn’t even had time to fasten the gunbelt around his waist - it was still clutched in loops in his hand. Again, the sword came down, and this time Avon brought the gun up vertically, so the guard around the grip caught and held the edge of the sword, stopping its downwards arc. His arm shuddered with the force, and Avon kicked out with his left leg. His foot connected with Varn’s crotch, and the larger man staggered backwards but only for a moment. He planted his back foot firmly, and raised the sword blade as though to swing it round, so Avon lunged forward and fired and miraculously the gun was his and he heard the sound of it firing and Varn fell backwards. His body thumped noisily against the ground.

There wasn’t much of a cheer, but since Avon had effectively killed their leader he hadn’t expected one. A small man scurried down from the dais and checked Varn’s pulse.

“Stop - this - _now_ ,” Blake’s voice yelled from somewhere down in the corridor. Then he emerged at the mouth of the staircase.

The guards had stepped to one side, giving Blake enough room to stride out some way into the court. He took in the fallen man, the sword lying a foot from Varn’s outstretched hand – and Avon standing next to him. Having assessed that Varn was indeed dead, the arbiter’s man rose and returned to the dais where he consulted briefly with the arbiter. Blake’s jaw clenched and his eyes moved up from the dead man to Avon’s face.

Avon raised his hands, as though in surrender to Blake, and made himself smile.

Behind him the arbitrator said, “It is the verdict of this court that Kerr Avon is innocent of all charges laid against him, as is his vassal Vila Restal.”

Avon lowered his hands, and twisted his smile slightly so it was legitimately a smirk. Blake was still glowering at him, but alive. Jenna had gone over to him, and was probably explaining what had happened, but Blake’s eyes hadn’t moved from Avon’s face and it looked very much like he hadn’t noticed she was talking.

“Cal Varn’s lands and property,” the arbiter continued, “are henceforth the property of his former second, Faran Gopt. Kerr Avon, and those that are his, may go freely from this place, safe in the knowledge that he was indeed righteous.”

“Thank you,” Avon said. “I’d suspected it, of course, but it’s nice to have it confirmed by an independent party.”

He walked over to the evidence desk, picked up one of the bracelets and closed it over his wrist. He hefted the box of bracelets off the table as well and was about to try and stack the spare gun on top of it when Jenna picked it up for him, along with the other loose bracelet.

“He’s not going to forgive you for this, you know,” she said at a volume that wouldn’t carry back to Blake. It was, Avon knew, a statement of fact, rather than a barb. Unfortunately. Jenna was not trying to upset him. In fact, Avon thought that she was probably trying to congratulate him.

“Got it!” Vila shouted from behind them. “Blake, I’ve-” Avon and Jenna turned to see Vila emerge at the top of the stairs, clutching the lost teleport bracelet. They saw his face fall as he took in the man on the floor, and then looked up at Blake, who hadn’t said anything for some time now. “Ah,” Vila said. 

Avon looked back at Jenna. “I didn’t expect that he would,” he said. Jenna nodded, and they walked away from the table carrying their possessions.

“Of course you may stay if you wish,” the arbiter said. “Now that your names are cleared.”

“No,” Blake said flatly. He accepted the spare bracelet from Jenna and raised it to his mouth. “Cally, teleport us now.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Avon told the assembled crowds.

Then came the customary wobble and jerk in all the molecules that made up his body, and customary blurring of his vision. Then the Liberator teleport area faded into view. Cally was sitting behind the desk, Gan standing anxiously to her side like a guard dog.

“Get us out of here, Jenna,”Blake said. “Speed standard by three.”

“Right,” Jenna said, with only a quick glance at Avon and one at Cally.

“What happened?” Gan asked, taking the teleport-bracelet box from Avon. “Did you win?”

“No,” Blake said.

“I saved his life,” Avon said.

Blake turned on him fast, jaw clenched and eyes blazing, but Avon had known it was coming and was prepared. He smiled. “Don’t worry, Blake. It’s a mistake I don’t mean to duplicate.”

Then he left the teleport area before Blake could shout at him. He was in the right this time – Jenna had practically confirmed it. But strangely enough that didn’t make him feel much more understanding, or more able to bear whatever Blake might say to him.

*

He had to make a conscious effort _not_ to avoid the flight deck. As he approached the end of the corridor, Avon discovered that he’d managed to time his arrival to coincide with Jenna’s traditional post-failure pep talk. This time it seemed to be along the lines of:

“But do we _need_ a base?

To which Blake predictably responded, “Of _course_ we need a base.”

It seemed to be going much the same way as Jenna’s previous pep talks, which was to say badly. Avon wasn’t entirely sure why exactly she kept trying. If Blake was determined to wallow in misery and irritation, then he was going to wallow in misery and irritation for as long as it took him to get over it on his own or think of something to distract himself. There were several dedicated Federation units whose job it was to stop Blake doing things that he wanted to do. Most of them were also in a perpetual state of failure, but Jenna’s tactic of explaining why Blake should stop being upset in an annoyed tone of voice was perhaps even less successful than Travis. Still, it was her choice.

Avon paused outside the doorway, unwilling to become involved as either an object lesson or as moral support. The other possibility, of course, was that he could taunt Blake about his choices, but that seemed unappealing today. Or leave. Yes, Avon supposed he could leave.

“Don’t you see, Jenna,” Blake continued, “if we don’t have somewhere that we can stop and rest, then we will always be running. We’ll never be able to build an army capable of properly resisting the Federation.”

“An _army_?” Jenna said, echoing Avon’s thoughts.

Blake seemed to realise this had been a misstep. “All right,” he said, “not an army, but a group of people large enough to make plans bigger than hitting a communications base. I’m tired of running, Jenna. I’m tired of not being able to make a difference to people’s lives. I want to stand and fight.”

“I’ve been a free trader for years,” Jenna said. “I don’t call what we’re doing running, Blake. I call it home. And more than that, I call it safety. If you ask me, building a base on a planet the Federation can land on is asking for trouble. It’s asking for them to come to a place they know we value and wipe us out. While we can be on the move, we’re safe.”

“...I didn’t ask you,” Blake said, managing an impressive mixture of sheepishness and self pity.

“No, you didn’t,” Jenna said, which was again something Avon had thought himself, even if he hadn’t explicitly said it, like she had. “But you can make amends for it now. I think it’s a bad idea to build a static base for the rebellion. I always have.”

“All right, then,” Blake said. “No base.” It sounded grudging, but like he meant it and had actually changed his mind. This was incredible, unlikely behaviour, so Avon decided to risk going close enough to observe the momentous occasion. Blake, he saw, was actually smiling at Jenna, as though they’d become closer through this disagreement. It was strange and consequently uncomfortable, so Avon was relieved to see Blake’s face fall again when Jenna turned back to the flight controls. “Certainly no base on Meredes.”

“I can’t say I’m not relieved,” Jenna said. “And if it took that awful trip to Meredes to make you realise we were better off on the move, then _I_ think it was worth it. After all, we haven’t really lost anything, have we?”

“Haven’t we?” Blake said.

“A day’s work,” Jenna said. She checked the displays on her station efficiently as she talked. “And perhaps a few teleport bracelets, but that’s not exactly unusual.”

“ _Jenna_ ,” Blake protested.

“If you’re talking about Varn, then I’m not sorry he’s dead,” Jenna said unapologetically. “He may have been on our side, but he definitely wasn’t a good person. You do know he killed those temple guards because they didn’t catch Avon and Vila quickly enough?”

“But _at least_ he was willing to talk to us,” Blake said. “We could have _used_ his help to break the hold the Federation has on his planet. Then we could have brought about fair elections.”

“Do you _really_ think that was likely?” Jenna said.

“At least it was _possible_ ,” Blake retorted.

“Perhaps we should have stayed then,” Jenna said, which was the first thing she’d said that Avon didn’t wholeheartedly support. Probably because she didn’t believe it either.

“No,” Blake said flatly. “Faran Gopt, Varn’s former second, is sympathetic to the Federation. He’s been trying to gain power for years, trying to get their backing, but he didn’t dare to challenge Varn personally. It took Avon to make that mistake. And now – oh, things will changes on Meredes, but not in our favour.” Blake laughed to himself, the sound hollow and bitter. It wasn’t his real laugh, but it was the one Avon heard most frequently. “I wanted to make a difference. And I did. When I arrived the situation was bad. Now it’s worse.”

Jenna’s patience with Blake’s self pity had clearly worn thin by this point. “Don’t read too much into it,” she said. “It wasn’t a good situation. You need to find a better one and work on exploiting that. You should also try to find some better allies.”

“Better than Avon, you mean?” Blake asked, like a slap in the face.

“Better than _Varn_ ,” Jenna said. “Can you handle things here, Blake? I know it’s my watch, but I’d like to rest for a few hours.” To Avon it was obvious that she was frustrated and wanted to leave the conversation, but Blake was preoccupied and presumably took the statement at face value. He nodded and waved her out.

Avon stepped backwards into the shadows in case Jenna chose this exit, but she seemed to have gone up the stairs at the back of the flight deck. He heard Blake moving around, and was about to make a decision about whether to leave or walk in when Blake said,

“Zen, display the perimeter defences around the Terran solar system.”

 _So that’s what he thinks is a better prospect than Meredes,_ Avon thought. _Earth_.

The absurdity of it was enough to amuse rather than frighten him. Blake would undoubtedly have some ridiculous plan that would make the six of them attacking the Federation homeworld seem almost reasonable. It would have noble goals, only slightly underhand tactics, and would very probably be the death of him, since Blake’s plans never seemed to put a high priority on his own survival.

Of course, Avon could always leave before that happened. He could leave right now, if he wanted to.

He walked onto the flight deck. 


End file.
